


Sunbird

by HandsomeManExpress (DangerousCommieSubversive)



Category: Lucha Underground
Genre: Magic, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M, Weird Plot Shit, unmasking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 20:44:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5220164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DangerousCommieSubversive/pseuds/HandsomeManExpress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is so much life in Fenix that Catrina would like to use.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunbird

 Fenix doesn't remember the end of the match. He remembers falling, and when he wakes up on a cot in the Temple's small infirmary—still masked, at least, still a warrior even in unconsciousness—he knows that he lost, but he doesn't remember what happened. He doesn't even remember being brought into the back. Only dreams remain, and dreams aren't to be trusted; he knows that well. He has lived many lives, and dreamed many dreams.

He picks himself up from the cot feeling more bruised than seems reasonable, even given the match that he just had. His head spins for a moment, but then settles—so not concussed, just dizzy and tired. If he had a concussion he wouldn't have been left there by himself, or at least he hopes not.

The Temple is quiet. The crowds have dispersed, the other fighters have gone to wherever it is that they go, their homes or hotel rooms or quiet hideaways. Perhaps Dario Cueto is still here, working late into the night in his office, but otherwise...silence. It's eerie.

He rounds the corner, thinking to get his clothes and go back to where _he_ sleeps.

The Temple is not empty. Catrina is waiting for him. Mil Muertes is with her.

Fenix steps back, ready to fight, but Mil Muertes doesn't move forward—they're down on one knee at Catrina's feet, head lowered, her hand on their shoulder.

“Fenix,” Catrina says, in her dark purr. “A white flag, if you will.”

He eyes her sidelong. “Your creature will kill me.”

“Not unless I tell them to.” She smiles, stroking the back of Mil Muertes' head. “Come home with us.”

“Come... _home_ with you?” He stares at her.

“I offer you a truce for the night.” She beckons him. “Come home with us, sunbird. I promise I will not let Mil Muertes kill you. We will feed you dinner.”

He watches her warily, and then nods. “I need to get my things.”

She nods. “Of course.”

* * *

 

The strangest thing, at first, is that they take a taxi. Somehow this doesn't make sense to Fenix; it doesn't seem right to him that his enemies should have such pedestrian means of transport. And he sits in between them, too, which is also strange. Mil Muertes never looks at him, just past him, their eyes lingering on Catrina's every movement.

She pays the taxi driver with a golden coin that he shouldn't be able or willing to accept, and Fenix is outside a small house, dark and strangely pedestrian, until they lead him inside.

They feed him dinner. It's difficult to make conversation, Fenix feels too out of place in this strange little house, but Catrina seems unbothered. _She,_ at least, is comfortable, serving the food (where did it come from?) with a secretive smile and talking about what happens as if the Temple as if they're simply coworkers. Which...they are. But at the same time it's different.

Mil Muertes doesn't talk.

Not that they ever do.

They finish dinner.

Catrina says, “Come to bed with us, sunbird.”

It's probably a bad idea to say yes, and there's an itch at the back of Fenix's neck that tells him Catrina probably doesn't mean well. He can't say anything to what Mil Muertes wants; it seems that they simply want to do what she tells them, but it's hard to judge.

He says, “Yes.”

* * *

 

“You don't have _lamps_ in here?”

Catrina smiles at him over her shoulder as she lights candles. “ _You_ don't like fire, Fenix? I think candles are very revealing.”

The candles are unsteady, the light flickering on Catrina's clothes and skin so that she, too, looks like she's made of fire. The room is warm. _Fenix_ is warm. Mil Muertes is a furnace behind him and very large, silent, waiting.

Catrina puts down the candle from which she was lighting the others and walks towards him, walks him backwards into Mil Muertes and says, “Show me, Fenix. Show me how you burn.”

* * *

 

He's between them. It feels like he's been between them all night.

They undressed him. They ran their hands and mouths over him as if trying to make a map of all his strengths and weaknesses. He's barely gotten to lay a finger on either of them, and not for lack of trying; every touch of his is batted away. Mil Muertes seems offended that he'd even _try_ to touch Catrina without her express direction to do so, although they never say so, still silent.

Now he pants open-mouthed as Mil Muertes slides into him, spread-legged over their thighs, back pressed to their chest, their breath hot on the back of his neck as their lips brush the laces of his mask. It feels _good,_ and Fenix gasps at the first thrust, and then Catrina presses her forehead to his and murmurs, “Are you ready for me, sunbird?”

“Yes...”

Mil Muertes wraps their arms around his waist and chest and holds him up, and Catrina positions herself and slides down onto him with a pleased sigh. “Touch me.”

It's difficult to get a hand between them, but he does it, breathtaken, working a thumb down to rub against her clit, and she laughs long and low and shaky.

“Cat—”

A hand clamps over his mouth, and a rough voice that he doesn't recognize says, “You don't say her name.”

_Mil Muertes._

Catrina laughs more and says nothing.

And it's warm, _hot,_ Fenix is rocked back and forth between them with sweat dripping down his chest and his breath coming short. He's seeing stars and things from dreams.

He's almost there.

“Time,” Catrina says.

Mil Muertes lets _go_ of Fenix, and he almost slumps forward until he's jerked backward again, because _Mil Muertes is undoing the laces of his mask._

The mask comes off, and Fenix hears it land on the ground, and Mil Muertes pulls his head back with one hand and grabs his chin with the other. “Open your mouth,” they growl into his ear.

He opens his mouth.

Catrina smooths his hair away from his forehead and says, “Burn for me, Fenix,” and _reaches,_ past his lips and teeth and down his throat.

It's strange. It doesn't hurt.

Her hand comes out with a little core of fire in it, and Mil Muertes hands her a jar—where did they get it?—that she puts it in.

Fenix shudders forward, climaxes, and blacks out.

* * *

 

He wakes up at his hotel. His mask is on. There's an emptiness in his chest.

The room feels cold.

* * *

 

Catrina writes the label in an elegant, curling hand and smooths it onto the jar carefully. _Fenix._

“How many more?” Mil Muertes says from their seat at her feet.

“Many, many.” She strokes their head and places the jar on the shelf with the others. “There are never enough.”


End file.
